She's safe, I keep telling myself. Danny and the rest of them got there in time, Forrestal's dead, she's in one piece and she's alive. But I can't quite believe it, and for the first time in my life I run amber lights, exceed the speed limit, and generally drive in a manner reckless and endangering to the public, as I make my way to her house with all possible speed. I know it's late, I have no idea if she will be pleased or not, but I cannot sleep tonight until I have seen Ruth with my own eyes. As I pull into a parking spot just down the street from her house, I'm relieved to see that there are lights still burning on both floors. She's still up, then. I hasten to her door, knocking three times in rapid succession. There is what seems like an interminable wait, then the door opens a millimetre on its chain, just enough for me to hear her ask who it is. "R..r..Ruth, it's me. I'm sorry to call so late at night, but I just had to see that you were alright", I stammer in my nervousness and concern.

She takes the chain off the door and opens it. She is still dressed in her work clothes, but her feet are bare and her exhaustion is plain to see. "Malcolm…come in," she says, after a long moment, and she steps back, then leads the way into her small, old fashioned kitchen. "I was just about to make myself a hot drink…but I think a strong one might be more appropriate…" She raises an eyebrow in enquiry and I nod as she collects glasses from the sideboard and brandy from a high cupboard over the sink. She pours, spilling a few drops, then carries the drinks over to the kitchen table where I am sitting, as I watch her in concern. Something is terribly wrong, I can see it in the lines of her body and in the way she is avoiding my eyes. We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinks untouched before us. Finally she says, "It was my own fault, really, putting myself in danger like that. It's just that I felt sorry for him, he was so lonely…I thought, maybe…" - her voice is so low I have to lean forward to hear it – "maybe we could have…" and then she stops, shoulders shaking. I reach across the table, gently taking her hand, and she looks directly at me for the first time since my arrival. "Oh, Malcolm, any of us could end up like him, so damaged that right and wrong cease to exist. I was so frightened when…he tried to…he was going to…" and her control gives way for the second time since I have known her. She breaks our tenuous contact to huddle into herself as she weeps silently, rocking back and forth like a child.

I long to gather her in my arms, to hold her until she is calm again, but I know I must tread carefully; she has just spent a night incarcerated by a man she had trusted and counted as a friend, and I am afraid of what else he might have done... I must handle the situation delicately, as if I am working with a live high-explosive device. Stress and fear do strange things to people, and manifest themselves in odd ways, but I can see that already Ruth is beginning to calm down as she starts to get her breath back, so with iron self-control, I do not touch her. My mind is churning; I don't want to hear the end of that last sentence, I really don't. I know what she was going to say, and I can't bear the idea of it. Not Ruth. Not my Ruth. For the first time, I feel fiercely glad that Forrestal is dead; indeed, I am astounded at the intensity of my reaction.

At other times, when I have been involved in operations which have, deliberately or otherwise, resulted in loss of life, I have felt sickened, distressed, guilty, unclean; my usual ritual at such times is to find a church, and sit in it, breathing in the cool, calming scents of aged wood and stone, candle wax and old books, fading flowers and lemon furniture polish, until I feel that equilibrium has been somewhat restored…for me, it's the smell of home, or the closest thing to it, since my father passed away. I had loved spending time with him in the little Dunvant parish church while he prepared for his sermon (he was always a nervous public speaker, so he would practice again and again in the empty building). Some people find churches cold, discomfiting places. For me they have always been havens of peace and sanctuary; but tonight, my thoughts are centred solely on Ruth, and I feel no need to seek forgiveness for my part in her rescue – if I had to, I know I would do it again, without hesitation.

I wonder what Father would make of me now, perched on a hard kitchen chair, watching a woman almost twelve years my junior as she uncurls slightly and reaches for her brandy with a hand that trembles with exhaustion. "I'm all done in, Malcolm, it's been a very long day…" she sips her drink, making a face as the brandy fumes hit the back of her palate. I clear my throat and say, "I don't want to leave you alone tonight, Ruth, shall I call Sam or someone else to come over?" (anyone, that is, but him, I add silently). I can't believe that no-one has offered to do this for her after the traumatic experience she has just been through; it's common knowledge that Ruth lives alone and her family is not near. I think back to some of the bitter things I have heard Danny say recently about the callousness of the Service, the way it demands our all yet gives so little to us, and I can't help but agree. It's a hard job; it makes for hard people, but somehow, I have never quite succeeded in growing the tough carapace of professional indifference and self-preservation at all costs which would protect me from some of the nastier realities of the shadowy world in which I work.

Ruth accurately reads the indignant look on my face and answers defensively, "Well Adam had to get home, Wes is staying with him tonight, and Danny…he's got enough on his plate at the moment, so I just got the ambulance chaps to drop me off after they gave me the all-clear. I didn't want to be a bother…" That's so like Ruth, I think, never wanting to inconvenience anyone…never believing she's worth making a fuss over. I take a deep breath (how much I would love to be able to show her she's wrong!), but before I can ask the question I dread, she mumbles, "And Harry…he didn't even call. I suppose once he knew the operation was successful, he went home, too." Her voice is small and defeated-sounding. I recall my last sight of Harry tonight as I slipped out of the pods; he was hunched over his desk, his face buried in his arms, his mobile phone lying unheeded for once…well, he could have come here, he could have called, he could have sent all the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men to enquire after her, but he didn't. The fact of the matter is, in this one thing, unbelievable though it is, I am braver than Harry...or more desperate, I'm not sure which. At any rate, I'm the one who is here. With Ruth.

I ask her again if I should call anyone, and she shakes her head; a tense silence fills the room, and eventually I say reluctantly," I suppose I should get going, then, unless there's anything else I can do?" The question hangs there, unanswered, until I make a move to stand up, and her huge, haunted eyes, filled with mute entreaty, lock onto mine as she simply says "Please…" I nod, unable to speak, as she stands up, brandy still unfinished, and heads for the hallway. I drain my own glass quickly, for courage, and follow her out of the kitchen.

Instinctively, I understand that she just wants my presence in the house tonight, and I'm perfectly prepared to bunk on the couch downstairs. I have my inhaler in my coat, and somewhere I think I have antihistamine tablets to combat my usual reaction to cat dander. As I follow Ruth, I look about the hallway, and frown to see how poorly secured her home is. I will have to fix that, and those, and definitely change this, as I begin making a mental list of modifications to make things safe…oh, I think I have one of them in the car… I come out of my happy, technical reverie when I realise Ruth is sitting on the stairs, looking fixedly at the newel post, where my overcoat is draped. "Ruth? Are you alright?" I ask gently, and then she begins to speak, not to me, but to whatever she is seeing with that gelid gaze, and I am chilled to the bone at her words.

"Sore, so sore…why did he have to tie my arms so tightly? It's not as if I can escape, the whole house is locked down…I'm thirsty…It's cold here on the tiles, so cold…will they find me in time? I told Danny…look for God in the details…didn't think they'd lead me here…oh, I'm so tired…" I quietly say her name again, and Ruth starts in surprise. "I must have drifted off, sorry!" I offer her a hand up, appalled at the cold clamminess of her skin, realising that she's still in shock as she climbs to her feet stiffly. "A nice hot shower, it's the best thing for aching muscles," I tell her, striving for a light, matter-of-fact tone, and she nods and yawns at the same time. "You're right," she agrees, and heads for the bathroom.

While she's gone, I take the opportunity to call Mother and let her know I won't be home tonight, then I head into the little sitting room where I first brought Ruth the Karl files, and look around for a blanket which is not covered in cat hair. Eventually I find one on top of the bookshelf, of all places, and quickly make up a bed on the couch. My heart is pounding with the novelty of it all, but I am very deeply worried by what I have heard and seen so far. Ruth is not a field spook, with their training in mental and physical endurance…and she has endured a great deal in the last twenty-four hours.

After quarter of an hour has passed, curiosity gets the better of me, and I go upstairs to find her. Looking through the first door on the left, I can see that her bedroom is small, painted a soft blue, and furnished simply with a double bed, low bookcases stuffed to overflowing with works in five different languages, a slipper chair, a tiny wardrobe built into an alcove, and an old dresser – oak, early nineteenth century, if I know my antiques – and beautifully carved. I squint from the doorway and look closer, intrigued, to see that the uprights holding the oval mirror which crowns the piece are each topped with a tiny carved mouse. One is sitting upright, minute spectacles perched on its nose as it peers at a book held between its paws. The other is holding a quill and a long scroll, and is wearing academic robes and cap. Antique, scholarly mice, how Ruth... "It's been in my family for generations", she says from the hall behind me, "one of my more illustrious female forebears must have been a blue-stocking, if the mice are anything to go by." I look at her reflection in the spotted old mirror and think how small she seems, in her blue-striped pyjamas. "Bathroom's free," she adds, yawning, as she proffers a towel. I head into the bathroom for some quick ablutions, before going to check that every external door and window is locked. Ruth tells me not to open the laundry door, as her cats have been shut in for the night, and at my surprised look, she rolls her eyes and says in exasperation, "I'm not a totally crazy cat lady yet! If they're not put to bed, they romp all over the house and keep me awake." I chuckle in reply, and set off on my rounds.

Before turning in, I come back upstairs to wish Ruth goodnight. She is already half asleep, but her bedside light is still on. As I have done so many times for Mother, I step silently inside the room to turn the light off, and as I do so her eyes open wide, and she smiles at me, the first real smile I have seen from her in days. I smile back at her as I switch off the light, and from the darkness I hear her say softly,"Malcolm? Thank you, I mean, really, thank you for being here." I wish her a good night, then go downstairs to wrap myself in a rather too dusty blanket. But I'd happily sleep on a fakir's bed of nails, if it meant I could be near her, and I have a feeling that tonight, she needs watching over. I doze off, uneasily, into a sleep peppered with disturbing dreams I cannot quite recall.

A couple of hours later, near midnight, Ruth wakes suddenly, screaming, and by the sound of it, flings herself against the far wall as if catapulted from bed. On high alert, I gallop up the stairs, and find her huddled between the oak dresser and the wall radiator, staring sightlessly into the distance. I realise she is still asleep as she cries, "Andrew, no! No, please, not like this, no, no, get off, NOOOOOO!" and hits out at someone she sees only in her nightmare. I turn on the bedside light, and approach her cautiously.

Sometimes my mother has a little wander around the house at night, and I have to steer her back to her room without waking her more than is strictly necessary. I know how to deal with Mum, but Ruth's terror is escalating exponentially, and I see no choice other than to wake her. Kneeling down just out of her reach, I say her name softly. "Ruth? Ruth, you're having a nightmare. You're all right, you're safe, and I'm here. Ruth?" I touch her lightly on the shoulder and then she says it. "Harry?" she whispers, "Harry?" It cuts me to the core. Her voice shifts from raw terror to dawning hope when she says those two syllables, in a way that she has never said my name. With affection, certainly, with friendship, yes, but never like that. Not yet, I tell myself, ashamed at the hot, prickly sensation behind my eyes…not yet...

Steeling myself against further pain, I gently wake her. Her eyes are enormous dark pools in the dim light as she stares at me. "You were having a nightmare, Ruth. Come back to bed." She doesn't move, but instead whispers, "He was so lonely, Malcolm, and so much like us. What if we end up like that?" I blink in disbelief. She's talking about a man who abducted her, apparently tried to force himself on her, and who would almost certainly have killed her in the end, with so much compassion. Once more, this extraordinary woman leaves me lost for words. If that man were standing before me now, I would rather kill him with my bare hands before I let him touch so much as a hair on her head, and yet, even in the midst of her terror, she looked into the depths of his soul and saw the sad truth hidden there. I am in awe of her. Still, it is cold, crouched there on the floor, so I coax her out of her corner with an appeal on behalf of my aged joints, which makes her smile, just a tiny quirk of her mouth. Once up, Ruth pulls on her dressing gown, and tells me, "I could really do with a cup of tea…I seem to have banished sleep for now." Tea, strong, sweet, hot tea - just the ticket, I decide, and we go downstairs.

With steaming mugs in hand, we settle, one at each end, onto the couch where I had been trying to sleep, and after Ruth has tucked her feet under her, neat as one of her own cats, she turns to face me and says, "Tell me everything. Please, I need to know". Of course you do, I think wryly, information and analysis is your life. So I recount the events since her abduction, going over details and facts until she is satisfied that she knows all; and for her part, she enlightens me as to the most terrifying experience of her life, until I wish she hadn't…dear God, how I wish she hadn't.

"What was on those diamonds?" is her first question, and in reply, I ask, "Was it…quick?" Her eyes fill with sadness as she relives those moments, and she says, "Oh, yes. He had just taken out a handful of them – he actually brought them to his lips and kissed them in jubilation – and then he simply…dropped." Yes, I think, direct contact with the mucosal membranes would have caused almost instant death... Ruth's voice continues, "At first, I thought he must have been having a fit or seizure, but when he went rigid, then started to foam at the mouth, I knew he had been poisoned…he didn't make a sound, just went into a huge spasm, and turned limp, and I could tell he was dead." I nod, and she looks at me with that piercing, truth-seeking gaze of hers. "I knew that was you, Malcolm. I knew that somehow you had poisoned those stones…what was it?" I shuffle in my seat a bit, uncomfortable at admitting my part in a man's death out loud, but tell her, "Spitting cobra venom, from a species in the Philippines, the deadliest sort, concentrated in a transparent polymer-based solution to adhere to every surface of each diamond. The venom is a neurotoxin which affects cardiac and respiratory function, causing neurotoxicity, respiratory paralysis and death. The neurotoxins interrupt the transmission of nerve signals by binding to the neuro-muscular junctions near the muscles…" I break off, aware that my explanation is going unheeded as Ruth's face crumples. Putting down my tea, I cautiously move closer, but until she turns, shaking, to bury her face in my shoulder, I do not touch her; only then will I allow myself to do what I have been longing to do since I arrived. I fold her into my arms while she cries, for herself, for Forrestal, and for the whole wretched lot of us who deal in death for the defence of the realm.

Although I am finally holding her, I can't soothe her as she relives the fear and horror of the last day. When her weeping finally becomes broken sobbing, then occasional hiccups, and my back is aching from the awkward position I have twisted it into, Ruth shifts on the couch until she is just leaning into my side. Staring at the floor, she speaks in a voice so low I can barely hear the words.

"He was going to kill me, Malcolm…I could see it in his eyes, once he had the diamonds…at first, when he began to take off his belt, I thought…I thought he wanted to …"she breaks off as a shudder passes through her whole body, and she presses in closer to me, seeking the reassurance of my solid warmth. I put my arm gently round her shoulders as she continues. "When I first realised it was him, that he was the one responsible for all those deaths, I tried to get away, but he tackled me, and then…he pinned me beneath him…and the look on his face…he was wondering how far he dared to go…I could feel he wanted to…I was so frightened…I actually wished he'd kill me, instead of…instead of having to endure that. I couldn't bear it…" I exhale slowly, striving to remain calm, to be who she needs me to be; a kind, caring friend, instead of the man who loves her to distraction, and who is suddenly filled with rage towards an enemy I have already killed. I know, far too well, the depths of depravity that men are capable of, but to think of Ruth, forced against her will, violated…it is unimaginably obscene.

I battle for control, and must succeed to a point, as she goes on with, "I'll never know why, but at the last minute, he stopped…perhaps he found my sheer terror off-putting, or perhaps there was still some shred of decency left in him…he was such a nice man when I knew him at GCHQ...and then, once he had gagged and tied me to the foot of the stairs, I knew he was going to kill me. All I could think was, where are they? Where are my colleagues, my friends? Will they get here in time? And then the diamonds arrived, and I knew. I could feel it…they were coming for me…but I never thought it would be you who saved me. You and your diamonds…Danny and Adam might have rescued me, but you saved me, Malcolm. He had taken his belt off to strangle me, when he reached into the bag and grabbed that handful of death…" She shudders again and falls silent, and I pull her closer still, closing my eyes against the feeling of her soft body against mine, her hair tickling my hand on her shoulder, the clean scent of her…wonderful!

We stay like that for a time, just sitting companionably close, sipping our cooling tea, then Ruth suddenly looks up at me and asks, "What will happen to the diamonds now? There must have been a king's ransom in that bag...I saw one of the junior field staff collecting them with a hazmat suit and some very long tongs." I turn to look at her, amazed at the way in which her mind works, and explain, "I'm in the process of decontaminating them now. Before I left tonight, I put them to soak in an enzyme bath which will dissolve the coating, then I'll clean them with denatured alcohol, and then tomorrow night, I'll take them across to St Thomas' Hospital and run them through their industrial autoclave a few times just to make absolutely certain they're safe." Ruth shakes her head in wonder, and suddenly, a giggle erupts, then another, until she is bent over, howling with laughter. Alarmed, I diagnose another stage of shock, and wonder if I should perhaps phone for advice from TRING, until she draws breath enough to gasp out, "It's all too awful...deadly diamonds...like something out of James Bond...and it's true, diamonds really are a girl's best friend!" I immediately place the film reference, but wonder what a rather banal Marilyn Monroe film can possibly have in common with the present situation, until I see what Ruth means, and begin to laugh too, out of sheer relief that she is going to be alright - hysterical laughter, I have read, is a common way for the body to release pent-up stress and cope with difficult situations, a psychological safety-valve, as it were. I feel the residual tension and fear beginning to drain from Ruth like a lanced boil, and say a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.

For myself, I don't know how to begin sorting through the conflicting thoughts and emotions which are tumbling through my overtired mind. Relief on a grand scale, at having her safe; fury at Forrestal, both for what he did, and what he so nearly did; an unfamiliar sense of pride at my part in her rescue, as acknowledged by Ruth; hurt, that she said Harry's name, and not mine, earlier; and underlying it all, the weight of my undeclared love for her. From the slack feel of her body against mine, Ruth is now not very far off falling asleep, so I nudge her carefully and say, "Ruth? It's very late…" She stirs and replies in a voice slurred by exhaustion, "I'm too tired to move…why don't you take my bed, and I'll sleep here?" The thought is a tempting one, but my sense of propriety doesn't allow me to entertain it for long. Slowly getting to my feet, I say, "Come on, then," as she protests sleepily. With an arm around her, I guide her upstairs, and stop at the doorway of her room. As I turn to leave, her hand catches mine, and she whispers, "Stay…" I hesitate for only a moment, and then I follow her to bed.

I understand very well that Ruth's request is not about sex, but about her loneliness and vulnerability; don't we all sometimes long for the unconditional acceptance of simple physical contact with another human being, to keep the monsters at bay? I drape my tie, shirt and trousers over the chair, put my shoes neatly underneath, and get into bed in my undershirt, boxers, and socks. Her house really is appallingly cold, and I vow to do something about it when I return to upgrade its security. Surely the least the Service could do is pay its workers enough to be able to afford as much central heating as they like, but having once had to survive on the pittance the government sees fit to reward us with, I know the truth.

Ruth starts awake as the bed dips under my weight, then curls her body into mine, murmuring, "Hold me," so I wrap my left arm around her waist, curve my right one around her shoulders, and with a sigh she relaxes back into me, her breathing easing into the slow rhythm of sleep. I feel the soft weight of her body against me, a tantalising burden, and much as I want to stand guard over her dreams, I fall asleep soon afterwards, marvelling at how the events of the last few days have led to this moment. In those minutes before sleep claims me, I vow that I will never do anything to betray her trust, and that I will move heaven and earth to keep her safe in future. What's the use of being a spook, I think sleepily, if not to keep the people one cares about safe? I know Harry has sometimes used his position and influence to protect his family, especially his headstrong daughter. This is no different, I tell myself. Except that this is Ruth, and there is nothing I that will not do for her. Just as I slide into unconsciousness, a fragment of poetry drifts through my mind…Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! /And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, / And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes…

A/N: The poem is one of Keats'.